Arctic Chill de-7 Page 13

  And then we have a paedophile and a repeat offender and an Icelandic boyfriend,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Not forgetting a teacher who patently hates all immigrants and foments bad feeling at the school. Nice bunch.”

  Niran obviously had to be a key witness in the case, and the fact that he had disappeared or fled or gone into hiding with his mother underlined his importance. They had let him slip out of their grasp in the clumsiest way imaginable. Erlendur had plenty of strong words to say about that. He blamed himself for the way it had all turned out. No one else.

  “How could we have foreseen this?” Elinborg protested at his overreaction. “Sunee was very cooperative. There was nothing to suggest that she would go and do something stupid.”

  “We need to talk to the boy’s father and Sunee’s mother-in-law and brother straight away,” Sigurdur Oli said. “They’re the people closest to her. They’re the people who would want to help her.”

  Erlendur looked at them.

  “I think that woman called me today,” he said after a pause.

  “The missing woman?” Elinborg said.

  “I think so,” Erlendur said, then told them about the call he had received while he was visiting Marion in hospital.

  “She said: “It can’t go on like this”, then rang off.

  “ ‘It can’t go on like this’?” Elinborg repeated after him. “ ‘It can’t go on like this.’ ” What does she mean?”

  “If it is the woman,” Erlendur said. “Not that I know who else it could be. Now I need to go and see her husband and tell him that she’s conceivably still alive. He hasn’t heard from her all this time and then she goes and phones me. Unless he already knows everything that’s going on. What does it mean, “It can’t go on like this”? It’s as if they’re plotting something together. Could they be involved in a scam?”

  “Had she taken out a big life assurance policy?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

  “No,” Erlendur said. “There’s nothing like that in the picture. This isn’t a Hollywood movie.”

  “Were you beginning to suspect that he’d killed her?” Elinborg asked.

  “That woman shouldn’t still be alive,” Erlendur said. “All the indications are that she’s committed suicide. The phone call was completely at odds with the whole scenario up to now, with every aspect of it”

  “What are you going to tell her husband?” Elinborg asked.

  Erlendur had been grappling with that question ever since he received the call. He had a pretty low opinion of the man, which deteriorated the clearer his past became. This was a man who seemed driven by an insatiable urge to cheat. That was the only way to describe it. Adultery appeared to be an obsession with him. The man’s colleagues and friends whom Erlendur had spoken to described him in quite favourable terms. Several said that he had always been a ladies” man, even a philanderer, a married man who had no scruples about trying to ensnare other women. One of his colleagues described how a group from work had gone out for a drink and the man had flirted with a woman who had shown an interest in him. He had surreptitiously taken off his wedding ring and thrust it deep inside a handy flower pot. The following day he had had to go back to the club to dig up the ring.

  This was before he met the woman who had now gone missing. Erlendur did not think she was the type to have an affair. The man had laid a trap for her, naturally concealing the fact that he was married, then the affair had gone further and further, much further than she could ever have imagined at first, until there was no turning back. They were stuck with each other and she was beset by profound guilt, depression and loneliness. The man refused to acknowledge any of this when Erlendur had asked about her state of mind before she disappeared. She was in good spirits, he said. “She never said anything to me about feeling bad.” When Erlendur pressed him by asking about the woman’s suspicions that he was having another affair only two years after they had married, he shrugged as if it were none of Erlendur’s business and quite irrelevant. When Erlendur pressed him further the man had said that it was his private business and no one else’s.

  There were no witnesses to the woman’s disappearance. She had phoned in sick to work and was at home alone during the day. Her husband’s children were with their mother. When he returned at around six, she was not there. He had not had any contact with her during the day. As the evening passed with no word from her he became uneasy and was unable to sleep that night. He went to work the following morning and telephoned home regularly but there was no answer. He called their friends, her colleagues and various places where he thought she might be, but could not find her anywhere. The day went by and he baulked at contacting the police. When she had still not turned up the following morning he finally called to report her missing. He did not even know what she had been wearing when she left home. The neighbours had not noticed her and it transpired that none of their friends or her old friends knew her whereabouts. They owned two cars and hers was still parked in front of the house. She had not ordered a taxi.

  Erlendur visualised her leaving her home and heading out alone and abandoned into the dark winter’s day. When he first called at their house the neighbourhood was lit up with Christmas decorations and he had thought to himself that she had probably never noticed them.

  “There can never be any bloody trust between people who start a relationship against that sort of background,” Elinborg said, the disapproving tone entering her voice as always when she discussed this case.

  “And then there’s the question of the fourth woman,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Does she exist?”

  “The husband flatly denies having an affair and I haven’t found any evidence that he did,” Erlendur said. “We have only his wife’s word about how she thought he was meeting another woman and her distress at the whole business. She appears to have deeply regretted her actions.”

  “And then she calls up one day when she sees your name in the papers because of the murder,” Elinborg said.

  “As if from the grave,” Erlendur said.

  They sat in silence and thought about the woman who had gone missing and about Sunee and little Elias in the garden behind the block of flats.

  “Do you seriously believe it?” Elinborg asked. About Niran? That he’s to blame for his brother’s death?”

  “No,” Erlendur said. “Not at all.”

  “But she does seem to be trying to get the boy out of the way, otherwise she’d have stayed at home,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  “Perhaps he’s afraid,” Erlendur said. “Perhaps they’re both afraid.”

  “Niran could have had an altercation with someone who threatened him,” Elinborg said.

  “Possibly,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  At least he must have said something to arouse such a strong reaction from Sunee,” Elinborg said.

  “How’s Marion doing, by the way?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

  “It’ll soon be over,” Erlendur said.

  He stood by the window of his office at the police station on Hverfisgata, smoking and watching the drifting snow swirl along the street. The light was fading and the cold continued to tighten its grip on the city as it slowed down towards evening before descending into sleep.

  The intercom on his desk crackled and he was informed that a young man was asking for him at the front desk. He gave his name as Sindri Snaer. Erlendur had him shown in immediately and his son soon appeared at the door.

  “I thought I’d drop in on you on my way to the meeting,” he said.

  “Come in,” Erlendur said. “What meeting?”

  “AA,” Sindri said. “It’s down the road here on Hverfisgata.”

  “Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?” Erlendur pointed at Sindri’s thin summer jacket.

  “Not really,” Sindri said.

  “Have a seat. Would you like a coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I heard about the murder. Are you handling it?”

  “With others.”

  “Do you know anything?”

  �
�No.”

  Some time earlier, Sindri had moved to Reykjavik from the East Fjords where he had been working in a fish factory. He knew the story of how Erlendur and his brother had been caught in a snowstorm on the moors above Eskifjordur, and how Erlendur went there every couple of years to visit the moors where he almost froze to death as a child. Sindri was not as angry with his father as Eva Lind was; until very recently, he had not wanted anything to do with him. Now, however, he was in the habit of dropping in on him unexpectedly, at home or at work. His visits were generally brief, just long enough for one cigarette.

  “Heard anything from Eva?” he asked.

  “She phoned. Asked about Valgerdur.”

  “Your woman?”

  “She’s not my woman,” Erlendur said.

  “That’s not what Eva says. She says she’s virtually moved in with you.”

  “Is she upset about Valgerdur?”

  Sindri nodded and produced a pack of cigarettes.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she thinks you’ll put her first.”

  “Put her first? Over whom?”

  Sindri inhaled the smoke and blew it out through his nose.

  “Over her?” Erlendur asked.

  Sindri shrugged.

  “Has she said anything to you?”

  “No,” Sindri said.

  “Eva hasn’t been in touch with me for weeks. Apart from that call yesterday. Do you think that’s the reason?”

  “Could be. I think she’s getting back on her feet. She’s left that dealer and told me she’s going to get a job again.”

  “Isn’t that the same old story?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about you? How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” Sindri said, standing up. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. “Are you thinking of going out east this summer?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. Why?”

  “Just wondered. I went to take a look at the house once when I was working out there. I don’t know if I told you.”

  “It’s derelict now.”

  A pretty depressing place. Probably because I know why you moved away”

  Sindri opened the door to the corridor.

  “Maybe you could let me know,” he said. “If you do go out east.”

  He closed the door quietly behind him without waiting for an answer. Erlendur sat in his chair, staring at the door. For an instant he was back home on the farm where he was born and brought up. The farmhouse still stood up on the moor, abandoned. He had slept in it when he visited his childhood haunts for a purpose that was not entirely clear. Perhaps to hear again the voices of his family and recall what he had once had and loved.

  It was in this house, which now stood naked and lifeless and exposed to the elements, that he had first heard that unfamiliar, repulsive word which had become etched in his mind.

  Murder.

  14

  The girl reminded him slightly of Eva Lind, apart from being younger and considerably fatter; Eva had always been painfully thin. The girl was wearing a short leather jacket over a thin green T-shirt, and dirty camouflage trousers, and had a metal piercing through one eyebrow. She had on black lipstick and one of her eyes was circled with black. Sitting down opposite Erlendur, she looked like a real tough cookie. The expression on her face betrayed an obstinate revulsion towards everything that the police could possibly represent. Beside him, Elinborg gave the girl a look that suggested she wanted to stuff her in a washing machine and switch it to rinse.

  They had already questioned her elder sister, who seemed to be more or less the role model for the younger one. She was all mouth, a hardened character with a string of convictions for handling and selling drugs. Because she had never been caught with large amounts on her at any one time, she had only received short suspended sentences. As was customary, she refused to reveal the names of the dealers she sold for, and when asked whether she realised what she was doing to her sister by dragging her into the world of drugs, she laughed in their faces and said: “Get a life.”

  Erlendur tried to make the younger sister understand that he did not care what she was up to at the school. Drug-dealing was not his department and she would not be in any trouble with him, but if she did not give satisfactory answers to his questions he would have her sent to a smallholding in the middle of nowhere for the next two years.

  “Smallholding?” the girl snorted. “What the hell’s that?”

  “It’s where milk comes from,” Elinborg said.

  “I don’t drink milk,” the girl said, wide-eyed, as if that could be to her advantage.

  Looking at her, Erlendur could not help smiling in spite of everything. In front of him sat an example of the most wretched depths that a human life could descend to, a young girl who knew nothing but neglect and squalor. The girl could do little about the state she was in. She was from a typical problem home and had largely been left to bring herself up. Her elder sister, her role model and possibly one of the people who were supposed to look after her, had talked her into selling drugs and naturally into taking them as well. But that was probably not the worst of it. He knew from his own daughter how the debts were paid, what it cost to buy a gram, what they sometimes had to do to buy their bliss, the kind of life this young girl lived.

  She was nicknamed Heddy and appeared to fit the profile that the police had of playground dealers. She was finishing compulsory schooling, lived in the neighbourhood and hung around with twenty-year-old men, her big sister’s friends. She was the go-between and they had heard various unsavoury details about her at the school.

  “Did you know Elias? The boy who died?” Erlendur asked.

  They were sitting in the interview room. With the girl was a child welfare officer. Her parents could not be reached. She knew why she had been called in. The welfare officer spoke to her and told her they were only gathering information.

  “No,” Heddy said, “I didn’t know him at all. I don’t know who killed him. It wasn’t me.”

  “No one’s saying it was you,” Erlendur said.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Do you know of any … ?” Erlendur paused. He was going to ask if there had been any altercations between Elias and anyone in particular at the school, but was uncertain whether she would understand the word “altercation’. So he began again: “Do you know if Elias had any particular enemies at the school?”

  “No,” the girl said. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this Elias kid. I’m not dealing there. That’s just bullshit!”

  “Did you try to sell him dope?” Elinborg asked.

  “What sort of cunt are you?” the girl snarled. “I don’t talk to cunts like you.”

  Elinborg smiled.

  “Did you sell him dope?” she asked again. “We’ve heard that you force the younger kids to give you money. You even force them to buy dope from you. Maybe your sister’s taught you how to go about it, because she’s experienced and knows how to make the kids scared of her. Maybe you’re scared of big sister too. We don’t give a damn about that. We couldn’t care less about a girl like you—”

  “Hey, listen …” the child welfare officer objected.

  “You heard what she called me,” Elinborg said, slowly turning her head to the welfare officer, a woman of about thirty. “You kept your mouth shut then and you should keep it shut now as well. We want to know if Elias was scared of you,” she continued, looking back at Heddy. “If you chased him to frighten him and stabbed him with a knife. We know that you like preying on smaller kids, because that’s the only thing you’re any good at in this miserable existence of yours. Did you attack Elias too?”

  Heddy stared at Elinborg.

  “No,” she said after a long silence. “I never went near him.”

  “Do you know his brother?” Erlendur asked.

  “I know Niran,” she said.

  “How do you know Niran? Are you friends?”

  “No way,” she said, “we�
�re not friends. I hate gooks. Never go near them. Not that Elias either. I never went near him and I don’t know who attacked him.”

  “Why did you say that you know Niran?”

  The girl smiled, revealing adult teeth that were completely out of proportion with her small mouth and childlike face.

  “They’re the ones who sell,” she said. “They sell the fucking dope. The fucking gooks!”

  Marion Briem was asleep when Erlendur visited the hospital towards evening. Peace reigned in the terminal ward. A radio was switched on somewhere, broadcasting the weather report. The temperature had dropped to ten degrees below, exacerbated by the dry northerly wind. Few people went out in such cold. They stayed at home, switched on all the lights and turned up the central heating. The television showed sunny films from Spain and Italy featuring blue skies, Mediterranean warmth and vibrant colours.

  Marion’s eyes opened when Erlendur had been standing at the foot of the bed for several minutes. One hand lay on the duvet and lifted up excruciatingly slowly. After a moment’s hesitation Erlendur moved closer, took hold of the hand and sat down by the bedside.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Marion’s eyes closed and that big head shook as if it did not matter any more. The moment of departure was approaching. There was not much time left. Erlendur noticed a small handheld mirror on the table by Marion’s bedside and wondered what it was doing there. He had never known Marion to care for appearances.

  “The case?” Marion said. “What’s happening in the case?”

  Erlendur knew precisely what was expected of him. Even at death’s door, Marion was absorbed in the latest investigation. From the weary eyes that rested on him, Erlendur read the question that he had been asking himself, sleeping and waking: who could do such a thing? How could something like this happen?